Mother Superior
by sullencullen
Summary: A missing moment from Breaking Dawn, wherein Edward and Esme have a heart-to-heart on his wedding day.


I learned how to knot a tie decades ago – or perhaps nearly a century ago, if I was taught by my human father and simply can't recall it – but Esme stands before me on my wedding day with the fabric of my tie in her hands, and she's twisting it with precision around her fingers because she, too, is somewhat of an expert at this. With three sons and a doctor for a husband she almost has to be, because at some point or another, we have all wanted her help – not necessarily because we can't master the Windsor or half Windsor or Pratt knots ourselves, but because we have sought her company or advice.

"I'm excited," I announce after a long moment of silence, although that isn't entirely true. I'm also incredibly nervous, and I know this despite the fact that I have none of the physical symptoms that accompany anxiety. My heart does not pound a lively beat against my rib cage, nor are my palms slick with sweat. My breathing does not quicken with shallow breaths and my stomach does not roil tumultuously. But being with Bella and rediscovering the subtlety of human emotion has made me realize that the twisted cacophony of thoughts in my head – my own, for once – is my version of anxiety. I am thinking far too deeply about an event that is meant to be utterly joyous.

"But?" Esme presses, smoothing the tie against my dress shirt with an accomplished smile playing at the corners of her lips. Evidently, the tone of my voice has suggested more than I had intended it to.

"But," I continue, exhaling sharply, "do I truly have a right to... claim Bella as I have? I've loved her since the moment I met her and I've wanted to marry her for almost as long, but the closer we draw to the actual moment, the more I begin to think that I've made a mistake."

Esme, who is far shorter than I am, casts her eyes away from the button she has been inspecting on my shirt and directs them toward my own. We are alone in my bedroom, far from the wedding preparations proceeding around us, but beneath her withering glare is the only time I have truly _felt_ alone with her. I suppose that glare originated with me, but she had certainly _perfected _it with Emmett.

"Edward, do you love her?" Esme demands, although we both know the answer to that. She takes a step away from me with her eyebrows raised questioningly, and although I nod, I know she won't be satisfied without a verbal response from me.

_Well?_

"You know I do," I reply. I can nearly see the storm cloud of her oncoming lecture forming within her brain.

"Then why are you so apprehensive?" she asks, folding her arms over her breasts. It seems entirely appropriate to expect her to begin tapping her foot as she waits impatiently for an answer, but she doesn't. With the exception of the rising pitch of her voice, she's oddly composed; as most mothers are at some point, she's far too convinced that she's right to be truly perturbed. "Bella has accepted that there are sacrifices that need to be made if you want to be together, even if you haven't. She may have her apprehensions, but she wants to marry you because it's the legal and societal equivalent of being with you forever. And she wants to become a vampire because it's the _literal _equivalent of being with you forever."

"She shouldn't want that, realistically," I reply softly, unable to meet her eyes any longer. The conviction she feels contrasts far too sharply with my own uncertainty. I gaze at the floor instead, as if I am endlessly fascinated by dust particles and carpet fiber. "She's far too good for me. We all know that."

She takes my hand, an action I anticipate because the physical need for her to do so – to offer me some form of comfort – swells immediately within her mind. "You're my son, Edward. I don't think _anyone _is too good for you. On the contrary, I think you've finally met your match."

"She _is _too good for me," I insist, my fingers hanging limply against hers. "She has a soul. She can dream. She has a heartbeat and a finite lifespan. She hasn't traded the very things that make her human for the trappings of immortality."

"_You_ have a soul," Esme says gently, and the combative tone she had adopted has dissipated. It's rather easy to conclude that she doesn't feel sorry for me; rather, she feels the overwhelming need to protect and comfort me, as she always has. "_You _can dream, even if you don't sleep, because I know you've dreamed of this. You aren't damned, Edward. It would be awfully difficult to love you if you were, and I love you just as easily as she does."

"I'm a monster."

Esme squeezes my hand gently and arches on her toes to increase her height. She presses her lips tenderly to my forehead, and to a human, they would have felt firm and uncomfortably cool. To me, however, her kiss reminds me of home: of sunshine streaming freely through windows with drawn curtains; of Alice's peal of laughter as she bests me in a game of chess; of Carlisle as he proudly affixes another set of graduation caps to the wall. In that moment, I forget that my mother died in 1918 – because my mother is standing before me, all caramel-colored hair and ocher eyes, and she accepts me both for what I am and what I'm not.

"Whatever you are, Edward, you are hers. And it goes without saying that you are mine."


End file.
